


A Roll in the Hay

by FrostysaurusRekt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Okay maybe a little bit of plot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:06:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7653211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostysaurusRekt/pseuds/FrostysaurusRekt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’ll be a quiet mission, Winston said. The two of you will be enough, he said. Comms are finicky out there, he said. There shouldn’t be any opposition, he promised.</p><p> “Just about two hours ago I thought I was gonna die on top of ya.” He pauses and he can’t help the chuckle that comes forth. “Now I think I might die under ya.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Roll in the Hay

**Author's Note:**

> This is a piece I've been working on for a long time. Unbeta'd, please let me know if there's any glaring errors. I'm also not the best at smut, so be gentle and helpful criticism is more than welcome.

It’ll be a quiet mission, Winston said. The two of you will be enough, he said. Comms are finicky out there, he said. There shouldn’t be any opposition, he promised.

Yeah, McCree would really like for him to say that to the twenty or so men stalking the area, looking for their hides. A nearby barn had been their only true cover, and when they found the building was about to be searched, they had to flee to the loft.

That was how McCree found himself laying down in a pile of hay, hidden by the intact cubes that were at the edges of the loft, pressed side by side with Hanzo. They’re both tense, awaiting the words from the Talon agents to search the upper loft. McCree’s on his back, holding Peacekeeper close to his chest, thumb prepared to cock it at a moment’s notice.

They’re quiet, listening closely as roughly six men scouted out the lower part of the barn. McCree’s certain he could get them all in one draw of his gun, he’d done it enough times, but he also knew the lower barn had blind spots and piles of things that the men could be behind. Without popping his head up to watch them (and in so being seen, most definitely), he had no way of knowing when they’d all be out in the open.

And then were was the matter of the other Talon agents outside the barn. There was no doubt that with the entrance to the barn being a funnel point, he and Hanzo could stop them dead. But there was always a chance, a risk, of one slipping through and he was not keen on taking that sort of risk when one, it wasn’t just himself being put at risk, and two, he was cornered.

In a wicker box. There was nothing to stop the Talon agents from realizing that there were two sharpshooters and just setting the place on fire. He’d seen them burn more for less.

He feels a shift, a light tug at his pants and when he glances down, he watches Hanzo’s hand release his jeans and signal. It’s a silent speech that Overwatch had borrowed from many world military branches and refined to its own. In fact, there were a few dialects within the recalled Overwatch members’ arsenal- one handed, two handed, sword handed, gun handed. There was never a need to drop weapons while signaling.

‘Do not shoot,’ his hand says, a strange two fingered dialect. Though he supposes that was for when there’s an arrow held in the same hand.

McCree signals back, the words were always simple. There were only so many words they would put into hands without making big productions. And there was also never any need to signal about meal options in the heat of a silent battle. ‘No plans,’

The cowboy glances over just in time to catch the glare from his partner. He looks to his hand, trying to bring attention back to it. ‘No plans to shoot,’ He tries to clarify.

The message seems to go through and settle the archer, just the slightest amount. There’s still tension, waiting for that decisive search command.

There’s a pressure on his leg, he doesn’t need to look down to know that Hanzo once again was grabbing at the loose fabric of his pants. McCree could only assume it was some form of grounding, the need to hold onto something or go into flight mode- which obviously would not work well here. It seemed a tad out of character for the archer, but then again, so did full body touching and there was no room to fight about it here. Not when hiding was the only thing they could think of to survive in this moment.

He can hear them grouping up below, murmuring about not finding anything below. It was only a matter of time. He looks at their surroundings. Large blocks of hay lined the edge of the loft, but there was a loose pile on the back side, no doubt spilled from bales over time. He smiles as he gets an idea, a stupid maneuver, but better than not trying.

McCree presses the muzzle of Peacekeeper to Hanzo’s shoulder, asking for attention. ‘Stay quiet, trust me’ his hand says in the grip of his gun.

The questioning scowl in return would make him chuckle under any other circumstances. His favorite pastime in the base while they awaited missions was prodding scowls out of the ever silent Shimada.

And if he thought the scowl was great, he’s forced to stifle a bark of laughter at the impression of a gaping fish Hanzo does as McCree sits up, ever so slightly and ever so slowly. Like he believes McCree was absolutely insane and about to go about getting them killed.

He reaches up, praying to whatever gods of men and omnics were out there that his hand was unnoticed. He grabs a string, no doubt the remnants of the solid bale along the back wall before it fell to time, and pulls.

He’s fast, rolling under the large chunk of hay that falls, hiding himself beneath it. Of course, it also falls on top of Hanzo, meaning as he rolls, he finds himself over the archer, instead of beside him. The red look of fury is priceless, and had it been under safer conditions, he might have run in terror.

Their legs are slotted together, and he considers it no small miracle that he hadn’t accidentally kneed Hanzo in the goods, or that the Japanese man hadn’t flinched horribly and ended up kneeing his crotch. He’s pressed as low as possible,  trying to not make the load of hay that covered them scream ‘I’m hiding two bodies in here’, but that means his elbows are placed on either side of Hanzo’s head. It also means that he’s effectively laying on top of him, making an apologetic grimace as he’s fairly certain his chest plate’s not the most comfortable thing to be pressing into Hanzo’s bare chest.

“What was that?”

“Go check it out,”

They both tense, and McCree shuts his eyes, slowing his breathing, hoping this would work. He can feel that pressure on his pants again, and he only just then becomes aware that Hanzo had never let go of him. Comfort, grounding, a prayer for safety? Whatever it was, it was the only way that McCree was able to tell that Hanzo isn’t tense to prepare for a fight, but with some amount of fear as well.

He just wishes he could tell the archer he agrees with that feeling, the slow churning in his gut as the ladder creaks.

They stare each other in the eyes, afraid to look away or move or even breathe as heavy boots land on the loft, only a few feet from their heads. Even through his chest plate, he can feel Hanzo’s chest thunder. Every breath is let out slowly and in time with the nearby agent’s footsteps as he walks around.

A rustle.

A sudden cock of the gun.

A spray of bullets.

Hanzo’s eyes go wide, just before McCree shuts his, expecting to feel the blinding pain of gunshots. Hear the laughter of a Talon agent who thought they were foolish for trying to hide. Feel the blood soak his clothes. But all he can feel is the wrenching grasp on his pants tighten, it’s a fearful hold, that’s for certain.

His mind races, flickering through any regrets he has, things he still wants to do with his life. The people he wants to spend it with still.

More footsteps, heading back to the ladder.

“Just a raccoon, sir.”

“Did you put the beast out of its misery?”

“Sure did, sir.”

“Come on then, we’ve got the package. We’re clearing out.”

As soon as the creaking of the ladder subsides, a sign that the agent had left their loft, McCree lets his head drop, resting on his forearm next to Hanzo’s head.

They wait, breathing still slow, bodies still tense, his grip tight on Peacekeeper just in case someone comes back to see the dead raccoon.

He isn’t sure how long it is before all at once, he lets it go, shaky breaths out, panicked gulps of air in. He thought for sure he’d been shot, he thought for sure he was riddled with bullets but he hadn’t felt it yet. He thought he was dead.

The sudden scream he lets out makes Hanzo jump, but after it’s out, he feels so much better. He gets up, fighting the hay off of himself, grunting and flailing ungracefully. He eyes the raccoon, dead, covered in bullet wounds he had been certain were meant for him, and he kicks hay over it, covering its body in the very back corner where it had been cowering in fear of the Talon agent. Just like he and Hanzo had been.

That just breaks more floodgates, he begins kicking hay all over the place and cursing up a storm. He’s not sure why, but this feels good, relaxing all of his muscles that had been tense as they hid up in the loft.

The only thing that stops his hayfest is more of that blasted string, getting wrapped around his boots and causing him to fall. He lands on his chest with a loud scream, the boards beneath him shaking and for a moment he’s afraid they might break under the strain and send him crashing to the farm tools below. When they merely creak and groan, McCree lets out a loud moan, melting to the ground and accepting his place.

“McCree?”

He lets out a groan, flipping his head over so that he can look at his partner- of whom he had forgotten entirely about in his small breakdown. McCree is silently thankful that he’s done a lot worse in front of Hanzo before, this is nothing compared to some of the things he’s been goaded into doing. Or some of the things he’s done on his own.

Hanzo is still laying in the same place, although decidedly more relaxed. One leg is brought up, bent as if he had nearly made an attempt to get up, his head is turned to watch McCree and an arm over his abdomen.

Maybe it’s still more of his breakdown, or perhaps it’s the fact that despite his tantrum, his graceless fall, and the near brush with death, Hanzo looks more relaxed than ever, McCree starts laughing. It’s loud and rough, throat a little raw from all the screaming he had just been doing. He buries his face into the hay, grabbing fistfuls of the stuff as he just lays there.

There’s more creaking and groaning of the boards and when he dares peek to the side, Hanzo’s metal feet are right beside his face.

The archer crouches and McCree has to crane his head just the slightest amount to see the concerned and confused look on his face. “You are a strange man, McCree.” He says, and even though it’s the millionth time he’s told McCree as much, it has become less of an insult and more of a way for Hanzo to explain some of the odd behaviors of the cowboy. “I am going to see if I can get a signal and contact a pick-up.” A pause. “Will you be alright?”

“’m fine.” He groans, melting further into the boards and hay.

Before he knows it, Hanzo is back, taking a seat by his side. “It will be a while.”

“How long is a while?”

The silence tells him enough and McCree groans again. Before he knows it, the groan bleeds into another screaming fit and his legs try to kick, only to tangle the string on his boots more and it takes only a few moments before he stops. He’s being a child. It feels good, but he’s being a child and that is probably not the best impression to give Hanzo- especially when he was finally becoming friends with the archer. “’m sorry.” He grumbles, huffing and turning his head to the side, glancing at his partner.

Hanzo lets out a huff of air, and through many months of prodding, McCree has figured out that’s a chuckle without it being too obvious. “We all release frustration in some way.” He says, he glances down to McCree’s boots. Silently he gets up and goes to the cowboy’s feet, untangling the thick string. It’s quiet for some time before he speaks again. “Thank you, McCree.”

He grunts. “What fer?”

“Your fast thinking saved us both.”

McCree tries his best to smile over his shoulder, that curl of a lip that says he’s up to no good again. “Who says I didn’t wanna just take you for a roll in the hay?” He jokes. Okay, so, he might be the smallest bit smitten with the archer. Who wouldn’t be? He’s spent many training sessions just focusing on not staring as the Japanese man’s muscles flex while firing arrow after arrow.

He tries his best to glance over his shoulder and he’s met with a stare. For a moment, he fears he’s fucked it all up. Flirting is nothing new, he does it often with just about anyone. It’s his way of endearment and it’s always harmless. Of course, that’s ignoring the fact that for the past few months it’s all been solely directed at Hanzo and half of it serious, testing the waters.

The archer blinks slowly. “I do not understand.” He says, but that stare states the opposite. He understands plenty.

McCree crosses his arms, burying his face in the crook of his arm without responding. He can hear Hanzo getting up and walking about. A heavy drag followed by pressure and a soft click tell McCree that the archer had fetched Peacekeeper from where he’d left it when he began his tantrum and slid it into his holster. He’s surely imagining the light brush of a hand over his ass.

Hanzo sits there beside McCree, silently, for a good while and although conversation is certainly McCree’s thing, he’s enjoying the quiet company. “Are you going to get up any time soon?” He asks, and for a moment McCree isn’t entirely sure he speaks until he feels a prod in his side, metal toes pressing gently.

“Yeah, I reckon I ought ta.” He murmurs, giving a defeated sigh before sitting up. He moves to lean against a large pile of hay behind him, the remnants of the pile he’d toppled to save their lives. He stretches his legs out in front of him and pulls out a cigar, lighting it with a flick of his lighter.

It doesn’t take much movement for Hanzo to turn and face him, legs crossed as he sits across from McCree.

“How long did ya’ say it’d be till pick-up?”

Hanzo does this thing with his face where he smiles with everything except his mouth. His cheeks lift just slightly and the corners of his eyes crinkle. McCree isn’t even sure if the archer realizes he does it, or if he’s making it up entirely and just wants to believe he’s learned to read Hanzo through the months. “I did not say,” Hanzo glances at his communicator, “Winston said six hours at least, a day at most. There is no one close by.” With a slight tilt of his head, he begins to stare at McCree, almost unsettling if it were not for the fact that McCree was used to such actions from the archer.

But this lasts entirely too long in entirely too much silence for such a thing. “Take a picture, darlin’.” He says hastily with a laugh.

Thankfully, it’s taken as the joke it was meant to be because Hanzo is smiling without his mouth again. “I was wondering if you might fly into another tantrum or if you were truly done.”

McCree groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Look, I-“ His voice chokes, and he leans his head back so that he’s laying full out on the pile of hay. “I thought I was dead. I’ve had brushes with death before, but usually that’s in the middle of a gun fight, where I can defend myself. I thought I was a goner when I heard that gun cock.”

“As did I.”

There’s a tug on his pants, and a hidden glance down tells him that Hanzo has taken grip of his pant leg. Just the slightest amount, but it reminds McCree of just how hard Hanzo had pulled at him when they both thought he was about to meet his maker. It reminds him of the look on Hanzo’s face when they both thought for a moment that it was the end, for him certainly, likely for the both of them.

“It has only been an hour,” He hears the archer murmur and then stand.

McCree closes his eyes, expecting Hanzo to go out and double check times with Winston- it wouldn’t be the first time he’d masked impatience with a false concern about punctuality. He’s learned through their small talks that while he is silent and watchful, stationary is not Hanzo’s preferred state of being.

What he doesn’t expect is a sudden straddling, it makes him shout and lurch forward. His eyes fly open and he finds that his thighs are now the seat of choice for his partner and returns the raised eyebrow of concern.

“Hanzo?”

“Jesse.”

And damn it all if that doesn’t go straight through him. His face goes red and he digs his hands into some hay to keep them from grabbing at Hanzo. Not when he isn’t entirely sure what’s happening. For the first time in a long while, he can’t read his face.

“Are you about to throw another fit?” And there goes that smile again, although this time McCree swears it barely reaches his mouth.

“I might,” He admits. He watches the Japanese man’s eyes roll down his chest and back up to his face, and there’s no clues to what’s going on in his mind. Either Hanzo is trying very hard to keep what he’s thinking hidden, or this is entirely new to McCree. “What’re ya d-“

“Giving a proper thank you for my life.” Hanzo replies casually, like he isn’t currently inching closer, shimmying along McCree’s thighs.

McCree grabs his knees, halting his movement and earning a glare for his actions. “Partner- Hanzo, look. You don’t gotta do nothin’ for thanks. I was savin’ my own skin too.” Absentmindedly he rubs the fabric of the archer’s pants between his thumb and finger, careful not to grab too harshly with his metal hand lest he rip the fabric. It wouldn’t be the first time a cloud of emotions had made him lose a grip on his… well, his grip.

“You misunderstand, Jesse,” Hanzo growls, and godamn that noise and his name go straight to his dick. The archer knocks his hands away, continuing to scoot forward, brown eyes watching McCree’s face carefully.

He holds his breath, only letting it out when his companion stops moving, just half an inch away from rubbing up against his half-hard prick. “An’ what am I misunderstandin’? I know I-“ He huffs. “I come on a bit strong, you don’t gotta repay me like that. I’ll settle for a few shots of whiskey if you’re keen on it.”

Hanzo hums, his hands coming forward and dancing along McCree’s chestplate. “Do you think I would let you continue your advances if they were unwanted, Jesse?”

The cowboy can’t help the noise he makes as he thinks. No, no he wouldn’t. He’d nearly shot someone through the head on the street once for touching his ass while they were on a mission undercover.

“I am not blind to what you desire,”

“An’ I told ya that you don’t hafta-“ McCree is silenced as those wandering hands grip the collar of his armor and jerk his torso up, forcing him to stare straight into Hanzo’s predatory eyes. In all the months of forging a friendship with the archer, not once had he ever felt that he was just another target. But this look, god if this is what people who think Hanzo is inept at close quarters combat see before he kicks their ass, he feels sorry for those poor souls. He feels like prey, like he’s already caught and he’s just waiting for Hanzo to decide to either free him or end him. It sends shivers down his spine.

Hanzo’s lip curls ever so slightly. “I am not doing anything I do not want to, Jesse.” And suddenly they’re kissing.

It’s forceful, and McCree would be lying if he said that didn’t turn him on. Their mouths slide against each other, and it’s the archer who pushes it further, tongue swiping against his chapped lips and it takes his brain a second to catch up with what’s happening. When it does, he groans happily into the kiss, his hands going to Hanzo’s head to pull him closer, biting at his lip when they have to break for air.

Hanzo begins biting and kissing at his neck first, deft fingers searching for the latches on his chest armor.

“I’d be a sore liar if I said I hadn’t dreamt of this.” He says with a groan, pulling the archer’s head back up for more kissing. He isn’t even sure what the aim is here, all he’s aware of is that Hanzo’s lips feel a tad rougher than he’d imagined and that he feels like if he doesn’t continue snogging him right, he’ll lose whatever moment is happening.

There’s an honest to goodness chuckle from the archer, not just a huff of air that masks the sound, and that does all sorts of things to McCree’s body. “I will admit the same.” Hanzo breaths between kisses.

There’s not enough room to breathe, and even when his sarape and chest armor are removed, McCree still can’t get enough air down. His eyes clench shut and his metal hand on the back of Hanzo’s neck becomes a fist to try and release some of the pressure he feels. So many highs and heart racing moments in the span of a few hours, and he’s eternally grateful that Hanzo seems to notice, the archer slowing his wandering hands.

They come up to hold McCree’s face, thumbs smoothing his beard. The kisses soften, peppering over his cheeks, and when Hanzo scoots closer, brushing against the bulge in his jeans, he lets out a gasp and the archer stills entirely.

“We can stop if you wish, Jesse.” He offers, breath soft against the cowboy’s lips.

“No- fuck, no. It’s just a lot at once, y’know?” He says, smiling and sliding his hands down to rest at the small of Hanzo’s back. “Just about two hours ago I thought I was gonna die on top of ya.” He pauses and he can’t help the chuckle that comes forth. “Now I think I might die under ya.”

This seems to give Hanzo permission to move again and he settles his weight against McCree, pushing him back against the hay pile. Agile fingers undo the buttons down his shirt, lips following with kisses that slowly turn into more bites- nips here and there. Hanzo untucks his shirt, pulling at it so he can deftly reach the last button, fully opening the garment.

McCree’s metal hand slides across Hanzo’s chest, slipping under his kyudo-gi and pushing it off the archer’s shoulder. Their hands move slowly over each other’s chests at first, soon picking up pace and groping, scratching and generally pulling for more. He grabs handfuls of Hanzo’s pecs, squeezing rougher than he meant to and the gasp he receives for his actions makes him pause.

The archer pulls away, glancing down and biting at his lip, a very rare sign that there’s something he wants to say but hasn’t a clue how to say it. The same look he’d given McCree when offering to accompany him on this mission.

Experimentally, he squeezes them again and when all it does is serve to turn Hanzo’s face red, he pulls his hands away.

Or at least, he tries. His own hands are gripped, pulled firmly to the muscular chest before him.

“Harder.”

It’s such a quiet word, barely a whisper and McCree is uncertain if he’d imagined it or not. He squeezes again, rougher, and the breathy moan he hears confirms everything. Heart palpitations or not, he continues his grabbing with his prosthetic hand while his real one snakes up and pulls the ribbon out of Hanzo’s hair.

Grabbing at the silky strands roughly sends them both back into a frenzy. They collide, breath mingling as they kiss with tongues exploring, dancing together rather than fighting against one another.

Hanzo’s hands deftly unbuckle his belt, movements quicker than an agitated rattlesnake. Button undone, zipper down, and before McCree can make a smart-ass comment about the speed in which the archer is completing these tasks, he meets cool air.

The cowboy hisses, both at the pleasurable sensation of Hanzo’s hand on his dick,slowly working him with precision, and at the teeth nipping at his bottom lip. His eyes flash open, meeting with blown pupils, covered quickly with fluttering eyelids at another squeeze on Hanzo’s chest. The sight is beautiful, the feeling is incredible, and McCree wonders if perhaps one day he’ll get the chance to make the archer come undone from gropes and kisses alone.

For now, he doesn’t test this theory, hands abandoning Hanzo’s chest and hair to undo the obi around his waist, opening up the kyudo-gi and sliding the archer’s hakama down just far enough so that his cock springs free. The soft keen Hanzo gives him boils him alive, a sound so soft and wanting that McCree would feel like a right demon if he denied the archer.

He manhandles Hanzo, gently prying the archer’s hand off his dick even though his hips thrust desperately to chase the feeling. He pulled the smaller man closer with a metal hand on his ass, grinding their lengths together before he takes them both in hand, his grip just shy of encompassing them both.

Hanzo seems to get the message and places his hand over McCree’s, allowing the cowboy to set the pace. It starts out slow, picked up speed gradually as McCree helplessly thrusts into theirs hands and Hanzo- oh Hanzo.

The archer is moaning, loud and unashamed, eyelashes dusting over flushed red cheeks. Had McCree known this awaited him if only he’d make a bigger move, he would have tossed hay on top of Hanzo a long time ago. He revels in the noises Hanzo pours out, whimpers and gasps flowing into soft begging for more. Loud cries, groans, fingers digging crescents into McCree’s skin as the pleasure swallows them whole.

McCree breaks first with a shout, dragging the archer forward so he can dig his teeth into a muscular shoulder. He releases them, but only for a quick moment until his grip is focused slowly on Hanzo, working him into a fervor that has the smaller man speaking Japanese, reducing him to his mother tongue.

There is one word he can make out among the babbling: ‘Jesse’.

“Yeah, come on, babe.” He murmurs huskily against the archer’s neck, “Let it all out.” His prosthetic hand grabs rough handfuls of Hanzo’s ass, tipping him over the edge.

His back bows, arching and throwing his head back with a drawn out cry. Hanzo’s hands scrabble for something to hold onto as he rides it out, purchasing on the edges of McCree’s shirt until the cowboy has wrought every drop from his body.

If McCree could have anything in the world placed into his hands at this moment, it’d be a camera. He reckons there’s nothing quite as beautiful as seeing the archer spent and flushed, though he does wonder if there’s more to be had. He’ll have to wait until they get somewhere with _proper supplies_ for that, if Hanzo is still keen on repaying him.

The archer recovers enough to lean forward and kiss him, sweet and slightly filthy as he feels their spend on their chests. However, the gesture is there, the hands are softly threading through his hair and gentle sighs are let loose against his lips.

Hanzo climbs off briefly, tucking himself back in before descending from the loft without a word. McCree is just about to worry when he returns, an old ratty cloth in hand. He straddles the sharpshooter once more, wiping up their mess and humming quietly.

He kisses McCree again when he’s done, smiling into the motion and the cowboy thinks he just might die from the sight of that smile- he aims to be the cause of many more.

Dark brown eyes peer at him, half lidded. “I checked the time.” He looks down at McCree’s cock, still hanging out of his pants. He trails two fingers over it, walking them along the length and making a delighted sound when it twitches under his touch. “We still have a few hours at the least.” Insatiable.

McCree groans, swatting the hand away and laughing at the offended look on Hanzo’s face. “Easy now,” He murmurs, tucking himself in but leaving his pants undone- no sense in making Hanzo work through that again later. “Need a nap before round two.”

The archer snorts, seeming to accept this as he lays down on top of McCree, body to body, adjusting so his legs slot between the cowboy’s legs. “Old and tired already, Jesse?”

A surge of adrenaline courses through him, a challenge shaking off the heady drowsiness that was settling. “I’ll show you old an’ tired, Hanzo.” He snaps before rolling them.

Rolling the dragon into the hay.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: ryuu-ga-waga-go-fuck-yourself  
> Twitter: @FrostyRekt  
> 


End file.
